


Le Jeu

by Andraste



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, BDSM, Caning, Established Relationship, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-23
Updated: 2014-10-23
Packaged: 2018-02-22 06:53:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,628
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2498654
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Andraste/pseuds/Andraste
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's not really a game.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Le Jeu

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Esteliel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Esteliel/gifts).



> This is a post-Seine AU. (Feel free to insert your preferred 'how Javert decided sex with Valjean was better than jumping off a bridge' scenario here.)
> 
> Sexual contents include: oral, anal, rimming, all briefly described.

"Are you sure?"

Javert tries to look around, but with his arms tied above his head he can't turn far enough. 

"I'm sure."

Valjean steps into his field of vision, frowning and bending the cane between his hands.

"I wish to honour your request. I am just not certain that I understand it."

Javert bites back a growl of frustration and shifts awkwardly in his bonds. "We have had this conversation already."

He feels as if they have had nothing _but_ this conversation for two weeks. More than ever, he wishes that he had never brought it up.

They have been lovers almost a year, and he'd kept his silence about this particular desire all that time. Coming to the act of love late, they have puzzled over it together like schoolboys deciphering a book. They have tried almost everything that fifty years of imagination could conjure. It is enough. More than enough.

He never should have said anything about this. And yet, when Valjean asked him one night if there was something else he wanted, he could not lie. He's never been able to lie. The words had come haltingly – he hadn't known how to begin to explain what he wanted, or why he wanted it. It is hardly a surprise that Valjean, who is kindness incarnate, and who has been beaten in earnest so often, cannot see the appeal.

"I don't want to harm you."

"There is a different between hurting and harming. I am not really your prisoner," Javert says, for what feels like the dozenth time. "It is a game. You will strike me when I say so, and stop when I tell you to. I am in charge."

If this goes on, he might as well ask Valjean to take him down from the rafters right now. Perhaps neither of them are ready. It chafes, to have come so close to what he wants and to let it go. He has become to accustomed to having things he wants, just lately.

Valjean fingers the cane nervously. "If you truly want me to hit you ..."

"24601." Valjean's eyes widen. He may have just done something unforgivable. Yet what better way to make the situation clear? Javert takes a shaky breath and keeps going. "I have commanded you. It is your place to obey, not to question."

"I -" Valjean hesitates for a moment, and then his expression changes, becoming closed and blank. It is the most fascinating and troubling thing Javert has ever seen. "Yes, sir."

Valjean's voice makes his heart quicken, but he straightens his spine. "Don't speak unless I tell you to. Now, I gave you an order. Begin."

The anticipation as Valjean disappears behind him is exquisite and terrifying. He wants to see. They should use the mirror next time. The thought seems unbearably filthy and arousing. The first blow of the cane makes him gasp, more in shock than in pain. Perhaps he hadn't truly believed that Valjean would strike him.

"Not too low," he cautions, trying to keep his mind on the practicalities. Pissing blood for days won't enhance the experience. "Again," he says, after a moment.

The second blow is higher. Apparently Jean Valjean can follow an order after all.

"You are said to have the strength of four men. I'm sure you can hit me better than that. Again."

The third stroke is harder, or perhaps it is just that Valjean strikes exactly where the second blow fell a moment before.

"Very good," he says. "Again."

He is starting to feel it now – the sense of elation that lies behind and under the pain. That Valjean is inflicting it at his order adds a layer of mingled joy and fear to the proceedings. He is acutely aware that this might ruin everything they have built between them, and the risk sharpens everything.

"You learn quickly," he pants. "Again."

At the fifth blow, he is flying. He forgets to ask for another, all of his weight falls on his bound wrists as his legs give out.

"Sir?"

Javert considers the unspoken question. He feels as if he could take a dozen strokes. Or a hundred. A thousand. It is only the tone of Valjean's voice that stops him. Valjean will continue beating him until he is asked to stop, that much is clear.

"Untie me," he says, standing up. He has chafed his wrists raw pulling at the rope, but he only realises it once his hands are free. Valjean's face is carefully expressionless, the face of thousands of prisoners Javert has seen. He rubs at his wrists while Valjean waits silently. He is flushed, although whether it is with exertion, arousal or shame is difficult to tell.

He could stop, now. He has what he wanted, he could bring a hand to his lover's face and break the spell. Yet he does not.

"You are well?" He tries to make it the indifferent inquiry of the prison guard, to ask the way one might ask if an ox is fit enough to pull a plough.

"Yes, sir."

Javert wants to sit down – his blood soars, but he's trembling, and not sure if his knees will hold out – but he must remain standing for this to have the proper effect. "Get on your knees."

Valjean lowers himself slowly – Javert has to stop himself from cautioning him to be careful of his bad leg – and looks up with that same blank expression.

"If you like," Javert says, "you may suck my cock."

Valjean leans forward, as tentative as the first time he did this, and touches the head with his tongue.

Javert shuts his eyes in pleasure. It doesn't take long before he is completely hard, and Valjean raises a hand to wrap around him.

"I did not tell you to use your hands," he says, firmly but not harshly.

Valjean withdraws the hand, and it balls into fist on his thigh.

"You do that exceptionally well," Javert says, reaching down to stroke Valjean's hair. He never praised the prisoners in Toulon. Of course, he never had anything to praise them for. "You are a model prisoner."

Valjean leans forward, trying to take all of him in. Javert pulls back. Much more of this and he'll come, or Valjean will choke.

"That is enough."

Valjean withdraws and looks up at him again. His eyes are bright, and he's certainly aroused now.

Javert sits down on the bed at last. He doesn't trust his own ability to kneel on the floor for as long as he wants this to take.

"Would you like to fuck me?"

Valjean looks at him steadily. "If you permit it."

"I do," he says, doing his best to sound nonchalant. "Get up here and kneel behind me." He arranges himself, face down. "Use your tongue." After a moment, something else occurs. "You may use your hands on yourself, if you wish, the better to prepare yourself for me."

It takes an effort of will to keep from thrusting forward into the bed when he feels Valjean's tongue. He doesn't do as well at stifling a gasp. He can't take much of this in his current state – his back stings and his wrists hurt and his cock is hard and if this keeps up he'll start begging.

"Stop," he says. Valjean does. "Now," he says. "Fuck me."

He feels Valjean's fingers at his entrance. "No," he says, "that is not what I told you to do."

He doesn't need to ask again. He groans as Valjean pushes into him in a long stroke and starts moving, steadying himself with his hands on Javert's hips. He doesn't last more than a few minutes before he comes, thrusting into the bed. 

Behind him, Valjean has ceased to move, although he has not pulled away.

"I did not tell you to stop," Javert manages to say.

The pain as his spent cock is forced against the mattress is exquisite, and he's torn between hoping it never ends telling Valjean to cease immediately. Before he can give in to either impulse, Valjean groans – the first sound he has made without an order – and spends into him.

They lie there, dazed, for some time, before Javert moves.

"Jean?" he asks, rolling over. He winces as his back touches the bed. "Are you well?" This time he lets his anxiety colour his voice.

"Yes," Valjean says, passing a hand over his face. He looks himself again, the self that Javert has come to know.

He doesn't know whether he should apologise or not, so instead he pulls Vajean down so that they are lying together. "Thank you," he says, and kisses him on the forehead.

"Did I hurt you very much?" Valjean asks, taking one of his wrists and examining it.

Javert is lying on his side, so as not to put any pressure on his fresh bruises, but he still feels some of the strange delight Valjean's blows brought him. "I should say just enough." A better question would be: did he hurt Valjean? He does not ask. Instead, he twines their fingers together. "You have not done any serious damage."

"We should dress," Valjean says. He is right, the night has become cold.

They get up, and wash, and dress in the candlelight. All the while, Valjean's expression is a closed door. Javert is relieved when he blows out the candle and leaves them in the darkness.

And yet, he still climbs into the bed, and carefully puts an arm around Javert. Perhaps he has been forgiven, or there is nothing to forgive. Perhaps they will speak of it tomorrow. Either way, Javert falls asleep to the sound of Valjean's breathing, trying not to wonder whether he has won or lost.


End file.
